


Once and Again

by seal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seal/pseuds/seal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s heat waxes and wanes like the tide. He loses himself to the mating drive, then breaks through the fog, then loses himself again. It's different in many ways, the way things were back then and now, but through it all he has Bucky—which, in the end, is all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I literally had a single scene in my head about Steve and Bucky's sexual misadventures set in a/b/o verse. Almost 4k later and I've yet to actually get to that scene. This is my life now, somehow.

  
**Now (May, 2053)**  


It’s the smell of ocean sea breeze mixed with mint and lavender that pushes through the fog of sleep, coaxing Steve away from unconsciousness. It’s a familiar scent, makes him feel safe, reminds him of home and love and _mate_. Last night comes back to him in flashes. He remembers the heat induced lust curling in the pit of his belly, the crippling want and need for his alpha, his mate, his _”Bucky, please, please, I need—”,_ begging in words strung together so tight it probably sounded like gibberish—overlaying with staggering relief at being filled, knotted, _claimed_. 

The overwhelming need has receded for now. It’ll come back soon enough—there’s still a day or so of his heat to weather—but for now he has some time free from the drive to breed.

Steve lounges on the precipice between wake and sleep for a bit, floating in a languid haze, lazy and content. He’s lying face down, on the softest, fluffiest duvet money could buy, a surface he thinks he could be content to laying on for the rest of his life. Steve exhales, long and evenly, not quite ready to open his eyes just yet. 

It’s late enough in the morning that he can see light from the sun behind his closed eyelids. 

The rest of his body comes online slowly, like fluorescent lights down a long hallway, reluctantly flickering on in stages down the line. He feels his left shoulder first, laden with a heavy weight and wetness he immediately wants to get away from. He sends a command to his shoulder to shrug off the weight but his body decides to ignore his request, most of his muscles still loose and soft, struggling to catch up to his awareness. He feels pinpricks spreading up the void of numbness that is his left arm. Then, his lower back pipes up, complaining, making it known that he had fallen asleep in an unfortunate right angle to his hips. The skin between his thighs itch like a banshee.

With a great deal of effort and nothing short of a minor miracle, Steve blinks his eyes open against the brightness of the sun filtering across the east facing window of the bedroom. He manages to get his neck muscles to obey and turn his head to the left to asses the weight pinning him down on his left and almost inhales a few locks of dark brown hair. 

It takes Steve a few tries, sputtering and turning his head, to get the strands out of his mouth, _super sexy there, Steve_ , he thinks to himself. Bucky, the origin of the hair, for his part, doesn’t stir, still out cold. Even with the enhancements of the serum, almost four days straight without sleep and high exertion will take it’s toll. He parked himself over Steve’s left side—probably why that side of him is all pins and needles—Bucky’s nose is buried on his shoulder blade and mouth hanging open and slack in sleep. So the gross, wet feeling on Steve’s shoulder, as it turns out, was drool.

James Buchanan Barnes, the formidable Winter Soldier, master sniper and super soldier, is and always has been a veritable fountain mouth in his sleep.

It used to drive Steve nuts, before the war and Erskine and the serum, when in the early mornings, right before dawn, he turned in bed seeking the warmth of the body he at the time had no doubt would be next to his own, and landing in a wet spot on the pillow where Bucky had been the night before and waking up with a scream, scrubbing away at his sticky face. Bucky, the jerk, would always laugh at him, wholly unapologetic, but mollify him anyway by kissing him on the nose, his temple, his cheeks, his eyelids, wherever he could reach and they could waste away entire mornings just tangled together, touching and kissing each other without a care in the world. 

Things have and have not changed much since that time, even after everything. As much as they’ve been moulded by the world and events around them, some things are still as they were before. 

Over a century after the train and the ice, decades after the fall of SHIELD, after the fallout following the Accords, after Thanos and the stones, and after all the blood and tears and pain and separation, they’ve managed to claw and fight their way back to each other and create little corner for just the two of them. They make time for each other, more and more recently than ever before, and it’s bliss. 

And now free of the choking hazard that is Bucky’s hair, Steve cranes his neck back to face his mate. 

The contour of the alpha’s forehead is smooth in sleep, relaxed in a way that never occurred during the touch and go period after he escaped HYDRA’s choke-hold and even now, is almost never present when he was awake. Bucky is perpetually vigilant to a fault when conscious, a trait that has not faded over the years. He does, however, sleep better nowadays, deeper than he did even when they were kids. It’s a testament to how far they’ve come. He doesn’t have nightmares as often anymore either, a small blessing he has yet to thank enough Wanda, T’Challa and the veritable army of therapists for their tireless work. 

He’ll be eternally grateful that he gets to have this with Bucky. 

And even after getting over three decades together, Steve still has an insatiable hunger for Bucky, feels bereft when he’s not around and needs his mate most days like he needed air. It wasn’t necessarily healthy, for either of them, but Steve has always been rather selfish and uncompromising when it came to Bucky, a failing he’s never really bothered to try and change.

Steve just watches Bucky sleep for a while, drinking in the sight of his mate, his best friend—Bucky looks comfortable, a small chunk of peace hard earned and despite his body’s aches, he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet of this moment just yet. 

However, his bladder disagrees, chooses that moment to remind him that it’s ready to go, which is the ultimate nail in the coffin for his stay in bed. 

Steve still tries to leave the bed without disturbing his bedmate, he certainly needs the sleep, but it’s a futile move in the end. He manages to untangle his legs and maneuver his protesting lower half over his side of the bed without issue, but his arm is well and truly stuck underneath the wall of Bucky’s chest. He gets two tries to slip out before Bucky takes a deep breath, signaling that he is waking up.

Bucky leans his body so the arm under him was free of the weight, but catches the wayward wrist with his flesh hand before bringing it to his lips, brushing across each knuckle and moving to end on the pulse point of his wrist. He blinks his eyes open to look at Steve and murmurs a soft “Mornin’-” into the skin.

“Late morning, actually,” Steve corrects, “But still good.” carding his fingers through the hair he could reach with his hand still held hostage to his alpha’s lips. He folds himself back across the duvet and kisses his mate’s temple. 

“How long do you have before—?” Bucky asks with a yawn, letting go of the wrist to trace a hand down Steve’s hips.

“An hour, probably, maybe two?” Steve replies, pushing himself up to get off the bed. He’s nearing the end of the cycle so it’ll probably be the longer estimate. His body burns through with desire like it burns through everything else, fast and hard in an unstoppable whirlwind. He still has a few hours of relief from the urge to be bred before the heat takes over again. He needs that time to try clean up, for what that was worth, and stuff his face with as much food as he can. 

“Well I, for one, never saw anything wrong with getting a head start,” Bucky says, because he’s an insatiable monster. He cups the back of Steve’s neck and pulls him down flush against himself and slathering sloppy kisses over neck and collarbone. Steve feels the outline of his dick, already half hard and leaking against his thigh.

“Buck, I can’t-,” Steve gasps, laughing into his lips but lightly pulling against the grip, “I really need to piss.”

Bucky sighs dramatically and let go, turns fully onto his back, stretching out like a cat, the hard line of his dick on display. He throws an arm over his eyes and pouts like a child, a very old child who is nearing a century and a half in age, “Well then, go. Leave me here in agony.”

Steve stays a few seconds to press a kiss on his lips as an apology, but hurries to the adjoining bathroom they share to take care of business. The toilet is sectioned off from the rest of the bathroom but he does hear Bucky opening the door and starting the shower.

When he’s done, he has every intention to leave Bucky alone in favor of food, but the scent, oh that familiar, beautiful scent, of his alpha on the edge of rut, wafting out with the steam billowing out from behind the sliding shower door just pulls at him mercilessly. And though his stomach growls at him for attention, he cannot resist following the scent into the shower stall. 

Bucky stands under the warm spray with his eyes closed, hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks. He’s stroking himself slowly, looks like a chiseled statue leaning against the wall of the stall. He opens his eyes to look at Steve as he comes closer, giving him a soft smile but he stays silent as Steve sidles up against him, stepping under the spray as well. 

Steve bends down slow and intent, kissing a wet trail along the other man’s sternum and navel and continues down until he’s on his knees, nosing at the thick cock taking great interest in the proceedings. He gently pulls Bucky's hand away from his dick so he can use his own, cradles the shaft in one hand, wrapping his fingers around the half hard knot at the base and licking up the side at the same time. He he hears a small whimper from above him and glances up to see Bucky, mouth slack, panting and pupils blown wide, laser focused on him and the path of his tongue. Steve gets distracted by the water running in rivulets across his neck and down to through to his heaving chest and torso, skin stretched over bone and sinew, framed by thick, corded muscle that could easily bench press a car.

“You waitin’ for permission, sweetheart?” Bucky pants, voice trembling and desperate. 

Steve’s eyes flickers back up to meet his eyes and his tongue darts out of it’s own accord, licking across his top lip. He doesn’t say anything in return because he’s feeling petulant, but lines up his mouth in one movement and goes down to the base of Bucky’s cock in another, no hesitation and no pauses. He keeps eye contact the entire time. 

It drives Bucky into a whine, high pitched and long, and he throws his head back in an arch when Steve’s lips brush along the edge of the knot. He swallows around the intrusion, adjusting, breathing through his nose in slow and steady beats. Bucky is a vision above him, skin pink from the steam and water and the full body blush he gets when he’s turned on like this.

The act is familiar and he hold himself down for a few moments, the full, solid weight in his throat. It had taken them quite a bit of trial and error and more error to find their way around each other and figure out the best way of going about things, but they’ve had the time to experiment and the results has been worth every awkward slip up.

Steve keeps a firm grip on the growing knot, rubbing a slow circle at the base with his thumb. Gradually licking with languid strokes along the underside of his cock as he pulls his lips almost completely off, holding the head in his mouth before going down again. Bucky sighs, content and serene, bringing his hand up and runs his fingers through the wet locks, pushing them to the side. Steve practically preens at the touch.

The push and pull of skin on skin warms up with friction and pleasure rises in small increments, but quickly. 

Bucky spends the entire time murmuring endearments, so intent he’s slurring his sentences, “Steve—! Oh the pretty mouth on you, Ahh-, just the prettiest thing, your lips wrapped around my dick, look at you—” he wraps his metal hand loosely around the nape of Steve’s neck, a solid weight there but no guidance, letting Steve set the pace.

Getting him to the edge doesn’t take long. Steve is well versed in what works.

“God, Stevie,” he gasps when he’s there on the precipice, “I’m gonna-”

Steve hums in approval, mouth full and filled, watching the muscles on Bucky’s abdomen contract. The fingers in his hair tighten and tug backwards. Steve allows his mouth to be pulled off with an obscene pop, his fingers still firm around the base of his alpha’s knot, and feels warm splatters against his cheeks, over his lips and dripping down his chin, marking him. He stays there, still and waiting, until the last of the spurts hit his face.

It doesn’t stay on him long, though, as the spray of the shower washes it away quickly. He blinks against the water running into his eyes, leans his forehead against the hard muscle of Bucky’s midsection, feeling the occasional post coital twitch. 

He stays there as they both collect themselves, lulled by the slowing rhythm of breaths and the warm water running through his hair. 

Time passes in a haze. The humidity of the running water traps and mingles their scents, keeps Steve hard between the thighs and still wanting.

Bucky moves first, his fingers curling under Steve’s chin and gently nudging up. Steve obeys the motion and lifts his head, half catches, half clings to the other man as he drops to a kneel to parallel Steve’s and covers his open mouth in a sloppy and desperate kiss, tongue and teeth and lips aggressive and hungry. 

“Are you close?” he asks before diving back into the wet heat of Steve’s mouth. He already has one hand gripping Steve’s hard cock in a loose fist. The other hand, the metal one, is circling his hole, teasing.

“Very,” Steve confirms and lets himself be maneuvered into standing, legs spread and back arched, flush against the tiled wall. His cock is still encircled by a loose fist, skin on skin, and his nipples brush up against the cool tile sending double jolts of pleasure towards his stomach. He’s so close he may just finish without anything else.

“Good,” Bucky says and kisses the line between his shoulder blades, “How do you want me?” he trails his mouth down the line of Steve’s spine, slow and methodically, a kiss over every vertebrae. He times his hand to the kisses, a slow caress up and down without real pressure, a tease, certainly not enough to immediately trigger an orgasm. He reaches the tailbone tip and nudges the skin there with his nose and murmurs, “You want my tongue?” and immediately licks a stripe across the twitching hole, making Steve gasp with a whole body jerk. 

“Stop teasing me, I swear, Buck, just, _ahh—!_ ”

Bucky sinks two fingers, hard and unyielding, to the knuckles in one go. “You like that?” he asks in a tone that gives away his smirk. 

The muscles of his rim twitch around the metal digit, but don’t put up much resistance between the heat and the frankly ridiculous amount of sex they’ve had in the last few days. It’s almost but not quite what he needs. 

Steve _keens_ , long and needy, bracing himself as best he could on the slippery tiles and shoving his hips back onto the intrusion further to get more stimulus, blindly seeking that spot inside. “Yes-yes-yes, there, oh right here, more—” he thinks or maybe he says, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care.

He feels Bucky’s tongue again, laving a slow arc around his rim, teasing at the edge but not quite breaching in. 

“Tell me what you want, Steve,” Bucky demands, “I want to hear you beg.”

“Please—” Steve trips up on his words, most of his mind focusing on grinding back to get the right angle, “Bucky, I need to come, please, make me—Oh, yes!” He shudders when he feels the solid muscle of Bucky’s tongue enter him next to the fingers still stroking in and out. 

Bucky doesn’t hold anything back anymore and curls his fingers just so, driving his knuckles further into the slick channel, the come and slick from before easing the way. He is relentless, setting a quick and brutal pace with his fingers, hitting that perfect spot over and over and over with every stroke. His thumb, oh, his thumb still anchored on his perineum, putting a delicious pressure there that has Steve mouth open, panting so fast he’s getting dizzy. 

Steve’s body coils up in a tight cord, higher and tighter with every thrust against his prostate. He’s not sure what comes out of his mouth, probably begging, “please _please_ ” and “fuck, yes” and whatever else he can gather in his head at the moment. He’s so hard it almost hurts and leaking, slick flowing and probably making a mess of things, and he’s wound up so tight he’s ready to snap with just a little more—

The pleasure builds and builds and builds and then Bucky presses in a third finger alongside his tongue, and that’s it. Steve’s pleasure crests and he’s coming, hard. 

It feels like his orgasm lasts forever, going on and on, pushing into the center his core. His legs feel weak, unable to hold up his weight and he slides down against the wall, slowly like molasses, Bucky’s reassuring weight at his back, making sure he doesn’t just pitch sideways and they both sink to the floor, tangled together. 

Steve feels lips against the nape of his neck when he gathers enough brain capacity to be aware of it.

It's somewhat cramped in the stall and there's barely any room to move around, but Steve still manages to turn his head, craning his neck and reaching back with his hand to pull Bucky forward enough to reach his lips. They make out on the floor, lazy and unhurried. 

The water is lukewarm by the time they’ve managed to actually clean themselves up. They stumble out of the shower stark naked and leaving trails of water behind them, only realizing that they had no towels at the ready until too late. 

They wind up forgoing bath towels all together and air dry themselves in the kitchen while making enough waffle batter to feed a small platoon. Consequently, they only manage to iron and eat about a third of the lot before Steve (accidentally) knocks a small batch of batter across the counter and onto Bucky’s stomach and chooses to lick it off of him rather than wasting paper. Then they actually manage to consume another few waffles before Bucky (not so accidentally) trips on air while holding a batch of fresh whipped cream bowel right onto Steve’s back and their late morning devolves completely from there.

It’s a rather productive morning, all things considered.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited parts of the last chapter into this one since it fit better that way and since this thing seems to have run away from me for better or for worse.

**Then (Late May, 1934)**

They first thought Steve was getting sick again. So did Steve, actually. It wasn’t an absurd assumption, given how often he actually did get sick.

But looking back, it was actually pretty obvious. The signs were all there.

*

It started with some rather unwelcome if familiar symptoms—nausea, stuffy sinuses, dizziness, malaise, and a persistent stomach ache. Steve felt it like a freight train, slamming into him all at once. What really sucked was that it was ten thirty in the morning and he was in school. The dizziness and nausea was pretty severe, even for Steve’s standards. But, he kept it to himself, determined to not let Miss Avery notice—she was always kind to him but she worried about him too much.

He managed to escape detection for another hour or so before he was discovered.

“You’re a little flushed, Steve. Are you feeling okay?” Miss Avery asked him, all of a sudden right next to him and he hadn’t even noticed.

“I’m fine,” Steve said automatically, sat up ramrod straight instantly. He looked up at her beseechingly, tried to look alert and not sick but he can tell from her eyes that she didn’t believe it for a second.

She places a gentle, and alarmingly cool hand on his forehead. Miss Avery always had warm hands. Always.

Then she says the dreaded words, “Why don’t you go to the nurse’s office and have her take a look?”

“I’m fine, really,” Steve insisted, because damn it, he was going to get through this day on sheer will alone if need be. The year’s almost over and he can’t afford to miss much more school to avoid being held back again. And it wasn’t fair. It’s never because he slacked off or was too dumb to be moved up a grade. Heck, even Miss Avery tried to advocate for him last year because she thought the world of him and tried to convey as much to the Board, but rules were rules and he had had to repeat because his body hates him, apparently, and can’t stay healthy and in school for enough time to graduate.

Miss Avery looked at him with pity in her eyes and Steve already couldn’t stand it. “Steve, please,” she said quietly, “Go to the nurse. I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

Steve deflated and nodded, muttered a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.” before he slinked out of the classroom, very aware that every pair of eyes in the room was on him and his walk of shame.

He protested again when the nurse told him to go home.

“It seems like you’re coming down with a case of the sniffles,” she said, palm laid on his forehead, “You should go home and try and get some rest.”

And Steve wanted to cry, his eyes watered despite himself and he scrubbed at them angrily. 

“Well I’ll be, young man,” she said to him, kindly, “I’ve been at this job for over thirty years but I’ve yet to meet a boy who cries because I told him he gets to skip school.”

In the end, Steve didn’t wind up actually crying, but it was a close thing.

*

By the time Steve escaped from the nurse’s office with a crumpled note in his hand, there were a few students straggling behind in the hallway before the next session was to begin. There were also two students waiting to be seen by the nurse: a girl who Steve didn’t know, looking bored and put out, and Daniel Ritter, the boy who would be convinced he was dying if the wind blew too hard. Neither paid attention to him and he was grateful for it. He tried to will his stomach to settle as he turned in the direction of his classroom. He was facing the light so he doesn’t notice the shadow behind him.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Steve nearly groaned out loud hearing that voice. Apparently, slinking back to the classroom in relative peace was too much to hope for.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to take a steadying breath and spun around to face Albert Thompson, recently inducted into the halls of arrogant and pompous alphas who thought the world owed them something for popping a knot. The room tilted dangerously with the motion and his headache flared like fire, but he did manage to stay upright and glare up in the right direction, which had to be worth something.

“Didn’t realize you cared,” Steve said. He refused his instinct to step back when Thompson, a whole head above Steve’s hairline, shoved his face way too close, his scent aggressive and overbearing. Steve only just managed to stop himself from spiting at the other boy.

“Crawling out of the nurse’s office again, it seems. What’s wrong with you this time? ” Thompson asked, smug, took a sniff of the air and recoiled, “And what the hell’s wrong with your scent?”

“It’s none of your business,” Steve shot back. He could be more polite, but it’s a courtesy he’d never been afforded from Thompson before and Steve can feel his temper’s fuse was already shortening rapidly.

“Don’t get so snippy without your attack dog around to do your fighting for you,” Thompson sneered, his eyes flickered down to Steve’s cheek, no doubt assessing the yellowing bruise there from last week. 

Steve could feel his temper snap as clearly as he could still feel the ghost of a knuckle connecting with the sharp edge of his cheekbone and the ugly crunch that he heard more than felt. The swelling and bruising had been particularly bad, his mother had tutted worriedly as she held a cool rag against the knot of pain, but there hadn’t been any broken bones, which was as near a miracle as he was going to get for a while. He let his rage dictate his words—he's itching for a fight now—so he bit out, “I don’t need anyone else to knock another one of your dumb teeth out.”

Thompson took this poorly, of course. His skin was as thin as he was tall. “Careful now, I still owe you a proper beating for sticking your ugly mug where it ain’t wanted,” he bared his teeth, a low growl vibrated across his throat, though his visage hampered by the obvious chip in his left canine courtesy Steve’s elbow.

“I’ll take you on however many times I need for you to understand the word ‘No’ from a dame,” Steve spat back. Dottie, the tall and pretty girl Thompson practically harassed ever since she presented, had clearly wanted to be left alone, but she was cornered against a wall and Steve could not let that stand. 

“You little _bitch_. I was within my right—” Thompson grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt and yanked him forward.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see a few students who had been milling about stop to openly stare. He planted both feet on the ground and yanked back, refusing to be intimidated, “She said ‘no’ you dumb knothead—”

“But you had to stick your nose in where it don’t belong and now Dottie’s got her cunt wet for _Barnes_ and it’s _your fault_ —” 

Steve saw red. How dare he. _How dare he suggest—_ , “You take that back,” he snarled, grabbed at the offending hand to pry it off, “You don’t deserve the time of day from anyone—”

The hand around Steve’s shirt tightened, a familiar sensation, and Steve squared his shoulders on instinct, ready to take a hit, “I’ll teach you to speak to me like that—”

“Boys,” a firm voice spoke up from behind Thompson, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” 

The small, gathered crowd of students visibly deflated and dispersed quickly.

Thompson let go of his shirt immediately and Steve stumbled back a step. The alpha broke eye contact first and turned to face the nurse who had no doubt come out of her office because of the commotion. “No trouble at all,” Thompson said, turned back to Steve with a fake chipped tooth smile plastered on his face, “We had a few words, but nothing’s gonna come of it.” True to form, Thompson was immediately deferential to another alpha with even a semblance of authority. He had no spine and it rankled Steve’s nerves even more.

“Of course it won’t,” the nurse said stiffly. She didn’t believe a word of it. “Really now, the least you two could have done was not cause trouble right in front of my office. I certainly don’t need to deal with the two of you and your nonsense more than once within a single month.” Her eyes flitted back and forth between them, narrowed and knowing. Last week, she had taken one look at Steve’s mess of a face the day after his last encounter with Thompson and she had sighed, long and suffering, because she’d known Steve since before his baby teeth fell out and she knew exactly what he had done.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Steve said, more frustrated than truly sorry. He got a condescending look from Thompson and he bared his teeth in return.

“I don’t care what your problems are. You two _will not_ get into fight,” she snapped, reared up to her full height and flared with the scent of angry Alpha, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they both replied in unison. Steve barely held back a flinch at the tone as he felt a jolt like electricity arced down his spine. 

“Steve, you should be on your way home and resting to get better. This illness is not going to go away if you exert yourself,” she said, softer. 

“So weak you got sick again,” Thompson muttered and eyed Steve disdainfully.

“Mr. Thompson,” the nurse interrupted, crossly, “You are not to be running your mouth off again—”

“Meant nothing by it,” Thompson had the audacity to look contrite, false front of humble and charm that made Steve’s skin crawl.

“Run along now, both of you. Without the dramatics, please,” the nurse said with a huff before she turned and cuffed Daniel, who still stood at the office door openly staring at the scene, and shoved him inside the office for his evaluation, “This is the third time you’ve been to me this week, what do you think is ailing you now—?”

“Had to get saved again from a beating you deserve,” Thompson lowered his voice to just within earshot of Steve’s good ear, “But then again, I wouldn’t want your dirty sickness rubbing off on me,” he turned on his heel and smirked, dripping with arrogance, before he sauntered away.

Steve thought about chasing after the bastard, pulling him back around and punching him in his stupid, pompous face. He’d actually get thrown out of school for it, not to mention that it was imprudent considering the nausea still rolling underneath his stomach, but consequences didn’t seem so bad in the face of his outrage and it might be worth it to try. 

The nurse’s office door squeaked open again before he can make the first step to reveal the nurse, stood by with a pointed look at Steve as if she could read his mind. 

Steve did end up just glaring at Thompson’s retreating back until he turned the corner and disappeared. He turned towards his own classroom under the knowing gaze of the nurse and slunk back without a new bruise on either his face or knuckles and he felt like a failure in some way for it. He collected his books from his desk as quickly and quietly as he was able with the intention of leaving as fast as possible. And he stood at the front bench, stared at his dirty and scuffed shoes and tried to will his headache away as Miss Avery read the note from the nurse with a pensive expression. She asked quietly if Steve wanted someone to see him home safely. He refused of course, his pride already smarting. She protested as she always did, tried to pull the concern card again in the face of that stubborn jut in Steve’s chin.

*

Later, he would count it as victory that he walked home alone.

There was little fanfare but his anger festered with each step closer home.

*

Sarah Rogers was on a long shift at the hospital and wasn’t home when Steve trudged into the cramped apartment, fuming and practically spitting. It was probably a good thing too, because she would’ve seen the sorry state he was in and tried to comfort him, would have looked at him with such pity and sadness and he just _can’t_ deal with it.

He angrily banged around a pot to boil some water and sat in front of the rising steam in a sulk with a towel over his head to try and open up his sinuses and also maybe a little to hide from the world. He was experiencing an odd dichotomy between having so much pent up anger that he’s ready punch anything that moved but he’s also so bone tired he just wanted to curl up into a ball and sit in a corner to weep. His stomach ache was worse now and he even dry heaved a few times on his way back home, but it was far enough from breakfast that he didn’t actually have anything in his stomach to throw up, not that it didn’t give it’s best shot at trying. Just another thing to add on to the pile of awful that is life at the moment.

Steve had never been proud of his body, thin and frail and crooked in a ways that were beyond fixing, but he’s not actually actively hated it. He didn’t think wanting to get through a few months devoid of a crippling illness keeping him in bed for weeks was too much to asked but apparently it was.

And in his later years he would look back on this and realize what had happened at the time, recognized the frustration he felt for what it was, but at the time he was of half a mind to try and tear his hair out and throw it in the bay. Steve has always wanted to be useful, to his mother, to his friends, to the world at large—and not be this burden that always gets sick and dependent and worry his loved ones half into their own graves.

At the time, he’s so angry about the unfairness of everything in his own head that he didn’t notice the soft knock on the window. He didn’t notice the same window slide open, the one that screeches horribly and needs oiling for the last three months or so. He also didn’t notice the soft footsteps approaching him and it wasn’t until a hand was draped on his shoulder that he finally noticed he wasn’t alone. 

He startled so badly he would actually have fallen off his chair if not for the hand on him and the screech out to come out of his mouth was not his proudest accomplishment to date.

“Somethin’ on your mind, punk?”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greeted, still hiding under the towel in shame, “Shouldn’t you still be at school?”

“I couldn’t find you,” Bucky replied, as if that was an acceptable excuse, “I asked around and was told you were sent home. I wanted to make sure your trouble making ass didn’t lose any teeth on the way home,” he tugged at the towel. 

Steve schooled his features to convey a better disposition than he was actually feeling, made a best attempt normal face. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m okay.“

He must have failed spectacularly because Bucky took one look at his face and asked in the next breath, “Why are you angry? Someone messin’ with you?” used the back of his knuckle and traced the yellowing bruise splattered on Steve’s cheek.

Steve’s heckles raised immediately, “No, I’m fine,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. It just comes out as curt and false, even to his own ears. He was getting tired of saying it over and over again. He’s determined not to mention Thompson. He was perfectly capable of taking care of that problem by himself.

“You sure? You got that pinched look on your face, means you’re angry at somethin’.” Bucky replied, eyes narrowing. He studied Steve’s face intently for a moment before he flicked a finger at Steve’s forehead and immediately got swatted away for his trouble but continued, “ And that particular crinkle usually means you’re pissed that you’re getting sick again.” His tone shifts, immediately from inquisitive to concerned, “Are you getting sick?”

And that concern in his voice, as familiar as it was frustrating, it’s the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“I can take care of myself,” Steve barked, much more harshly than he intended, but it’s out there and it was like a dam, broken and spilling out of his control.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Bucky replied.

It’s true, but that didn’t make Steve want to punch him in the teeth any less. And that train of thought was startling.

He’s been angry at Bucky in the past, but he’s never actually had this kind of a visceral gut reaction before. Where was this vitriol coming from? As Steve tried to collect his thoughts together to make some sense out of them. He shouldn’t be this bothered. 

Bucky chose that moment to move crowd against him, back of his hand pressed against Steve’s forehead, cool and comforting, but it’s a mistake, because he’s the third person today to do so and it just spread salt in the wound of Steve’s pride and he reacted.

“Stop it. I said I’m _fine_ ,” Steve spat, pulled away as if burned. The chair scraped against the floor in a wail as he stood up.

“Steve—”, Bucky’s got a grip was on Steve’s elbow. 

“I’m serious—” Steve pulled back, but Bucky didn’t let go.

“—the hell? What’s gotten into you?”

“Just leave me alone!” Steve shoved this time, used both hands, and wound up just pushing himself backwards when Bucky complied, let go in an instant, his hip banged against the chair behind him and almost tripped over his own feet. His stomach rebelled, sent another stab of pain up his sternum, but he did manage to stay upright, for whatever that was worth.

Steve scrubbed at his eyes, his anger cresting, heartbeat pounding in his ears. _I’m not gonna cry,_ he thought stubbornly, _I’m not._ The room closed in on him as his lungs strained, each exhale was taking longer and more effort, a sign his asthma was rearing to flare up. Steve stared at the ground in determination, focusing on getting his breaths under control. In and out, inhale and exhale and exhale some more, tried to will his lungs into cooperation by sheer force of will. He can hear his own harsh breaths in his ear and it’s strained cadence.

He did manage it, eventually, though anger still burned beneath his skin 

Bucky stood back the entire time, his hands balled into fists. He kept his distance, though he buzzed with the want to move closer. The look on his face though, confused and worried, so utterly _crestfallen_ it popped Steve’s anger like a balloon. 

Bucky was trying to help. He was just trying to help.

“I don’t—” Steve said, feeling lost without rage to prop him up, stood meekly with his shoulders weighed down, he could feel tears still brimming despite his best efforts in the corners of his eyes and it just upset him even further. He didn’t know why, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just—” 

Bucky said, “Hey,” after a beat of silence, his voice soothing and soft as he slowly moved closer until he was just shy of actually touching, and stood, body open and waiting, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Not in the way you’re overthinking it.” And none of Steve’s baggage was his fault. And yet, here he was taking the brunt of it like he owned it. He’s planted himself here despite everything and waiting for Steve to lean on him anyway. 

Steve sighed then, felt more defeated than he has ever in his life. He sagged forward bonelessly and buried his nose in the crook of Bucky’s neck as he folded himself into the embrace. 

The tears he tried so hard to hold back spilled too, unbidden, with ugly, sobbing, full body heaves, pours out of him like a waterfall. Steve’s not even sure why he’s so upset. It’s not that big a deal. He’s been plenty sick before, delirious and not even making sense and he’s gotten over it. He’ll get over this one, probably, if not through sheer force of will and frightening his poor mother half to death as well, but he’s come through with most of his parts intact before and he’ll be damned if a stupid cold stopped him now. He’d also never let some bully’s taunts get the best of him. He’s always been better than that. 

And yet here he was, clinging onto Bucky’s shirt and sobbing over it like a child. 

Bucky murmured in his ear, “It’s okay, it’s okay—” whispered a continuous string of nonsense in a soft voice, “Whatever it is, you’ll be okay, I’ll make sure—” repeated it, again and again. 

And they stood there, snug against each other, jostled with every hiccuping sob. It took a while for Steve to calm down. He slowed down his breaths to match Bucky’s, felt his heart rate slow down in tandem. Drained of his anger, he was left feeling hollow. He buried his nose closer to the warmth of Bucky’s collar. He smelled good, the safe and warm scent of ocean and he chased the scent with abandon. 

“Yeah,” he hiccuped into the stiff fabric covering Bucky’s collarbone, “Yeah, just give me a minute.” 

"Whatever you need,” Bucky said, soft but sure, arms tight and warm around him. 

“You’re a saint,” Steve mumbled. 

"Can you convince Father Donohue of that?” Bucky asked immediately, “He keeps implying I need to go to confession.” 

Steve guffawed, “He’s not wrong.” 

"Aww, come on, man. You can’t take back a compliment.” He pulls back slightly and gave a pout for show. “I’m not letting you take it back.” He used his sleeves to wipe away at the wetness across Steve’s cheeks. 

"You shouldn’t, Buck. You’ll get sick too,” Steve mumbled, snuffling around the mess of his sinuses and gently tugged the hand away. 

“The thing is, you don’t smell it,” Bucky, said, head tilted slightly in curiosity, sniffing the air. He’s always had a pretty good nose, better even when he presented as an Alpha. "Your smell is actually normal,” he leaned closer to the scent gland along Steve’s jaw, and Steve barely has the mind to think about propriety before the scent of the ocean washed over him again and he was dizzy with how amazing it smelled. Bucky inhaled deeply a hair-length away from plastered right up against skin, “In fact, your scent is stronger than normal—" 

And because the universe at large was, is and will always be that dick family member who wouldn’t take anyone else’s feelings or wants into consideration before making unilateral decisions and announcing life ruining changes, Steve’s body decided at that very moment to make a statement. Steve felt a pull in the small of his back but without any further warning or time to even contemplate that sensation, then felt a warm wetness slide down between his thighs and his nose is struck by a scent, distinct, hot and cloying, that knocked all the pieces together at once. 

The sinus headache, the nausea and vomiting, the stomach pain, the mood swings. He wasn’t sick at all. 

It was much worse. 


End file.
